


Once a Traitor, Twice a Fool

by Anonymous



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Dialogue Heavy, Implied Relationships, M/M, Missing Scene, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:20:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It is only among the Night Lords, Sevatar bitterly thinks, where the First Captain and Champion of the Legion can hold such titles while sporting the sinner's gauntlets.
Relationships: Alastor Rushal/Jago Sevatarion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24
Collections: PB Anon Meme - 2019





	Once a Traitor, Twice a Fool

So, Sevatar thought. Despite his best efforts, his father had somehow found out.

Briefly, he wondered _how_. He had made sure to disable the security cameras so that only his brothers in the Atramentar knew. Had it been one of the serfs? Or one of the other captives?

But then, there was little point in wondering. The _Nightfall_ was the Night Haunter's ship and the line between vessel and Primarch had grown very thin indeed since they had thrown their lot in with Horus. It was possible Curze had been watching the whole time, disabled security cameras or no, and only now bothered to make himself known.

There was however a part of Sevatar that wondered if it was actually his father's sixth sense that had informed him of the events. If that were the case, then there must have been some degree of inevitability in his actions. In which case, did it make sense to punish him? The thought of it was unpalatable enough so as to be pushed to the corners of his mind. His Legion had already been branded traitors, there was no need to muddy the waters further.

These thoughts and more raced through his mind in the handful of seconds it took for his father to leap into action. Sevatar was fast, the fastest of his brothers and likely the fastest in the Legion (and perhaps in the top ten amongst Astartes) and he still had trouble following the Night Haunter's movements, even when he was coming right at him.

One moment, he was kneeled before his father's throne. The next, and he was shoved against the ceiling of the throne room, his father's gauntleted hand wrapped around his bare neck. The laws of gravity didn't seem to apply to the Night Haunter; it was the only explanation for how Sevatar's limbs were dangling, hungering to touch the floor, yet his father seemed to be standing upright.

"Sevatar," his father says, "You disappoint me so."

Had he been a member of any other Legion, the statement would have reduced him to tears. Death would have been preferable to hearing one's gene-sire say those words. But Sevatar is VIIIth to the bone and among the sons of Nostramo, they know brotherhood exists only among the ranks and their vengeful vicious father could not care less for them, their well-being or their glories. Sevatar looks down at his Primarch and laughs.

Curze lets go and pulls back. Sevatar drops to the floor, reduced to supporting himself on his hands and knees. He is dimly aware of his father standing over him. Looming over him, really.

"The path you've chosen will damn you both," Curze prophesies.

It is only then that Sevatar flinches. And then all the hurt and frustration and anger that had simmered in him for decades, for three years short of a century, it bubbles to the top and he needs to bite his tongue to keep from speaking back.

"I know what you mean to tell me," Curze continues, and his voice is heavy with the same grating certainty as when he had foretold his own death, "That you have waited a long time and have found no replacement. That this little skirmish is as good of an excuse as any to take that which you've always considered your own. That with him by your side you will finally rest easy."

Sevatar looks up in time to see his father shake his head. A spectre's laugh makes its way from his lips and the look he fixes Sevatar with can only be described as pitying.

"Sev," Curze addresses, dropping to his haunches to look his foremost and favourite son in the eye, " _It is not so_."

Curiously enough, it is when he's forced to look his father in the eye that Sevatar at last finds his own voice. He laughs a laugh that is a shallow imitation of his father's before saying:

"Father, you are wrong."

Curze blinks, long and slow. His eyebrows (so thin they might as well be scars from an old knife fight) knit together. "Wrong?" he demands. "Wrong how?"

"You speak as if I will treat him like your Mud-eater, cloistering him in my private chambers. I will not, he is Astartes as I am Astartes."

Curze gives another short harsh laugh. "You mean to turn him to our side, then?"

"He has already been turned," Sevatar argues. "Long before the split in the Legions, he pledged himself to us."

"To _you_ ," Curze snarls.

"And what am I, if not VIIIth Legion to the bone?" Sevatar retorts. "To pledge himself to me is the same as pledging himself to you."

"Those same pretty words were used by my father to justify Mortarion's allegiance to Horus."

"I am not Horus," Sevatar snaps.

"Nor am I in any way like my father," Curze concedes. He leans back then, giving Sevatar blessed room to breathe, though he makes no motion to stand up. Instead, he taps his claws against the flooring as his eyes take a contemplative slant.

"This must have been at Alcatar," he says. Sevatar nods, confirming his deduction.

Therein follows a long silence, one which Sevatar is grimly certain will end with his head rolling on the floor. He wonders what will become of his prize then. Will he be tortured for the sake of it? Skinned alive before his kin? Will he swear himself to another one of his brothers? Or is he, and this is the thought which makes his stomach lurch, already dead?

At last, his father stands, striding back to his throne and throwing himself upon it.

"Sev," he says, as Sevatar looks up at him, "You are a traitor and a fool. Surely you know the punishment for traitors and fools in the Legion?"

Sevatar nods. _Death_ , he does not say.

"And yet," Curze sighs, "The galaxy burns and I have need of your talents. Perhaps you are right. I have, at times, been cruel and neglectful, though you are the most wretched lot of sons one could be saddled with."

"My lord," Sevatar says. And then he cannot bring himself to finish for the feeling of hope that threatens to flood his veins. It is unbecoming of a Night Lord; he is a child of darkness and despair. Hope has no place in his world of shadows.

"Go to the armourers. Have them paint your gauntlets red. Consider it a gift, this delayed execution of yours."

"And the Raven?" Sevatar asks, mad enough to press his luck.

"You would have him fight alongside the Atramentar?" Curze raises an eyebrow, truly surprised.

"I would."

There's a snort of laughter, properly amused this time. "Then so be it," Curze dismisses him with a wave of his hand, "Drown the planet in the blood of my brothers and their sons," he commands, "Help me set the galaxy ablaze."

"Your will be done, father," Sevatar answers, forming his fingers into a claw. He pushes himself to his feet even as he can feel his heartbeat through his ears. It was only in the VIIIth, he thinks, making his way to the armourers, that the First Captain could wear the sinner's gauntlets while maintaining his rank. He wonders if Alastor will notice, and then remembers he won't be able to ask. A pity; he had rather liked the other's voice. But he is alive and here and the Primarch himself has authorised his entry into the Atramentar.

If I had known it would come to this, Sevatar muses, I would've stolen him away years ago.

(Ah well, his conscience answers, better late than never.)


End file.
